Barrel and Bullet: An Urban Love Story
by Laid Bare
Summary: The streets of London are divided. Sides must be picked. But for Brianna and Jace, a whole world separates them. R&R - Language and Mature moments
1. Prologue

Prologue: Brianna

Happy endings are stories that have yet to finish. You can fool yourself into believing that the heavenly bliss that you're in will last, but it only makes the fall all the more hard. It's like a high, the rush, a fast addiction that leaves you craving for more. It makes any other ordinary day just not worth it, not worth living with the absence of you high. I learned this the hard way, now I'm paying for my addiction, alongside everyone else.

You see, I'm not addicted to drugs, just love. It's so easily to fall into love, it's effortless, you don't even realise that it's happening until it's too late, until your too deep. Falling in love is not the hard part; it's when you hit the ground, with nothing to break your fall that is the problem. You don't see it coming, until your lying face-first on the ground, broken and beaten, unable to get back up again.

I've made a lot of mistakes, a lot of hard choices, but even now, I can't regret what I have done, because that would mean regretting Jace Anderson.


	2. Chapter 1  Brianna

One – Brianna

My first mistake was not doing my English homework. The urge to squirm was overpowering as Mr McGee slowly made his way up the aisles, the dreaded little black book open in the flat palm of his hand. It was an evil little thing, a sardonic little smear of darkness. I hated that book with a passion. As McGee drew near, I found myself struggling to come up with a legit excuse for why – for the third time in a row – I have neglected to do my homework. Perhaps I could come up with one that would avoid the whole a-level lecture and their importance on the rest of my life. I couldn't tell him my actually excuse – that I found a gun in my baby bother's room and refused to let him out of my sight? I doubt it would go down well.

Catching sigh of my defensive expression, McGee looked well, crestfallen. His brightest student plummeting, all that talent, all that promise. "Detention, Brianna." He said in a weary tone and a little shake of his head. I think it's the headshake that gets me, more so than the detentions, the spindly scrawl of red ink on my work. Failure I can deal with. Disappointment? No so much. I think it's the idea that there's someone out there that wants you to achieve, that believes you can. You don't much of that around my parts; it makes me want to value McGee more. But he just wouldn't understand.

I watch as he jots my name down, the corner of his mouth turning down in a stern angle. A couple of years back, I used to joke about his lips, come up with lucrative and outrageous girlish fantasies, now his lips meant nothing more than his displeasure with me. Moving on, I felt strangely dismissed, like he was mentally saying 'I give up' but I knew him better than that, there was a lecture to be had at this detention, there always is. The long talks about my potential, about my future, slowly leading up to the infamous 'How's your mother?' It's a question no child wants to answer, especially when your said mother is an alcoholic and the fact that you English teacher knows about it, is because she made a pass at him in a pub once. I'll never forget the burn of shame as my mother stumble din the front door, a concerned McGee behind, glimpsing in to my personal hell of a life.

McGee was half way through the class when a unmistakable sound rang out through the room. It was a shrill call of a phone, an out-of-place sound in the mundane feel of the classroom. Some tried to hide the sound with a delayed cough, other's raising their voice to override the noise, but Mr McGee's sharp eyes fixed on a slouched figure at the back of the class. Chipped green eyes glared back challengingly, daring for McGee to comment. "Mr Anderson," McGee chastised, his lilting accent becoming more prominent, though his expression looked bored. "Hand it over." We all watched as Anderson rose from his slouch, a series of slow, precise movements that were like a flexing of the biceps, an arrogant display of power. The cloying stench of testosterone burned the inside of my nose.

It seemed agonisingly long before Anderson's phone actually fell into the outstretched hand of McGee, but it did and when it did, the whole class seemed to collectively sigh with relief. Guys like Jace Anderson are trouble; the green tie around his neck just seems to prove it. He proudly displays his side, of who he is. The YIRA. I don't know why the likes of Jace Anderson bother with school; it's obvious from the life they already lead that a-levels will be of no use to them. He's part of the Young Irish Republican Army, a bunch of eejets that scrap over territory with the Spanish immigrants. The red ties and the green. Spanish and Irish. The only mercy out of the whole stupid situation is that in Holy Trinity, there is a middle ground, where you can display to Trinity's students that you are neutral, that you refuse to pick sides. I wear my blue tie with pride, only wishing I could say the same for my brother Patrick.

I watched as Jace Anderson returned to his seat, a scowl set into his features, falls of blonde hair obstructing the heated glare that was directed at the retreating figure of McGee. "Detention, Anderson." The English teacher sighed in that same I'm-bored-of-this-shit tone.

Like I said, I don't understand why the likes of Jace Anderson bothers with school.


	3. Chapter 2 Jace

Chapter Two – Jace

_Stupid fucking Conner. _

I was fuming, trying to think of some reason legitimate enough to excuse the bastard. What was he playing at? I saw him this morning and I struggled understand what could possibly have had happened since then that could provoke the arse to suddenly decide to call me _during class_. I mean, you would think he could have waited; English was the second last period on a Monday. Why is he jumping the gun? Because of something bad, obviously.

That left me in shittin' myself in Politics, fifty minutes of unadulterated panic as different scenarios ran through my mind. Did he somehow manage to get himself in the nick? Did the police raid the bar, finding the thousands of pounds worth of drugs? The more I thought about it, the shittier the situation got. When the bell had finally rang, beckoning us to final registration, I was convinced that everyone was being held a gun point in Tony's bar by some Spanish cunts and that by not answering Conner's call, I had signed their death warrants. Fuck, I was already formulating a bunch of eulogies in my chaotic head, wondering just _what_ I would find when I finally managed to drag my ass to Tony's when I caught Conner walking the halls to his own form.

"You little shit," I swore, my voice loud enough to carry to Conner, causing a lot of eyes to swivel towards me. They did the usual, glance at me, then their gaze would drop to my tie and then look quickly away. At the familiar tone, Conner turned, his hazel eyes sweeping over the crowd until his eyes met mine. He must have caught the stormy expression, because Connor suddenly looked like a whore in church. I forced my way through the crowd, which was mercifully beginning to thin out, my gaze fixed on a light brown mop of hair.

"Jace," I was greeted, though if Conner Sullivan planned on saying anything else, I will never know, because I grabbed him by the collar, hoisting him up and shoving him against the wall. "What the fuck are you playing at?" I demanded, giving Connor a good shake. I didn't want to stop, not until I could hear the rattle of his teeth. I held him until Connor's face started to turn a deep shade of red, eye bulging. Satisfied, I dropped him, watching him splutter for breath whist eyeing the cleared halls wearily. In any ordinary school, you would expect a crowd around us, egging us on. But this was Holy Trinity and to encourage gang violence was permanent expulsion.

I expected a teacher that some little rat would have grassed us up about a fight between two green ties. I seemed like no one dared. Connor looked up at me, his eyes watering yet heated with anger. He was in embarrassed. Good. The little shit deserved to be. "What are you fucking playing at?" I repeated again, clenching and unclenching my hands. His wide eyed confusion made my blood boil, made me want to lash out and punch him into awareness. I knew Connor was a dopy little shit, but this was just taking the piss. "You called me in class," I said this slowly, for both the dumb shit to understand and so that maybe, with each word uttered, maybe I could ease the roaring, raging anger within me. "McGee's got my phone – I've got a fucking detention."

"What?" Clearly, Connor Sullivan wasn't with the green boys for his intellect. I gave him a shove, a warning one that satisfied me enough not to punch him. "You have to meet the Brothers," Connor stated unnecessarily, just the sound of his voice made me want to strike out, my blood seeming to hum with electricity, a source of power that set me alight, _alive. _It needed an outlet, a way out from my body, or it would just burn me up, continue to course through me until that was all that was left. Without meaning to, my right fist coiled, clenched, the muscles in my arms tightening as my arm swung, connecting with the yielding metal of the lockers that lined the wall. Somehow, it gave under the force of my fist; the echo of groaning mental reverberated through me.

The pain was immediate, white-hot, spreading out in hot, thick waves from my fist, shooting up my arm with sharp, painful clarity. I hissed, my knuckles felt raw and oddly numb, before screaming in protest as I tried to unclench them. Connor eyed me warily, but no longer looked like he was about to shit himself. I had the chance to hit him, but I didn't. Instead, I did more damage to myself. I heard the sound of footsteps, the ominous click of heels, just as I managed to move my fingers, some form of life tingling within them. I glanced at Connor with a scowl. "Tell Tony and Sean that I can't make it – I have to get my phone back."

I could see that Connor was about to protest, but Mrs Warrenton appeared around the corner, her expression stern and her gaze sharp as a hawk. "Anderson, Sullivan." Her voice sounded dry, like the brittle crack of breaking leaves, the smear of red on her thin lips dominated her face. "You have form rooms to attend to." Her dark eyes glanced at my still throbbing hand, bejewelled with the colour red, no doubt already changing to vivid shades of black and blue. "Anderson – get some ice on that hand and I suggest that you restrain yourself from damaging this school further in future."

I sighed, glancing at an already departing Conner, before looking back at Warrenton. "Aye." I agreed wearily, flexing my hand on the route to the nurse's office, feeling the Deputy's eyes boring into the back of my head as I did so.


End file.
